Rusty and the Leopard

Ruskin Bond

Description

A chronicle of Rusty s rebellious, eventful progression into manhood. Rusty, having run away from his guardian s home, is now trying to define his identity as he lives with the Kapoor family, tutoring their son Kishen and occupying the room on the roof. Soon, he becomes close to Kishen and, in the company of Meena Kapoor, begins to come into his own as an individual. Then tragedy strikes Meena s death evastates Rusty, and he leaves Dehra. Rusty and Kishen take to the open road, and their adventures accumulate as they tramp through the Doon valley and the Garhwal hills. Full of incident as well as introspection, this is a book older children will thoroughly enjoy.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 07 novembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184754483
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Ruskin Bond

RUSTY AND THE LEOPARD
Illustrations by Archana Sreenivasan
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Alone in the World
The Hills and Beyond
Author s Note
Read More in Puffin
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
RUSTY AND THE LEOPARD
Ruskin Bond s first novel, The Room on the Roof , written when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written a number of novellas (including Vagrants in the Valley, A Flight of Pigeons and Mr Oliver s Diary ) essays, poems and children s books, many of which have been published in Puffin Books. He has also written over 500 short stories and articles that have appeared in magazines and anthologies. He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014.
Ruskin Bond was born in Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh, and grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, New Delhi and Simla. As a young man, he spent four years in the Channel Islands and London. He returned to India in 1955. He now lives in Landour, Mussoorie, with his adopted family.
Also in Puffin by Ruskin Bond
Puffin Classics: The Room on the Roof
The Room of Many Colours: Ruskin Bond s Treasury of Stories for Children Panther s Moon and Other Stories
The Hidden Pool
The Parrot Who Wouldn t Talk and Other Stories Mr Oliver s Diary Escape from Java and Other Tales of Danger
Crazy Times with Uncle Ken
Rusty the Boy from the Hills Rusty Runs Away
Rusty and the Leopard Rusty Goes to London Rusty Comes Home The Puffin Book of Classic School Stories The Puffin Good Reading Guide for Children
The Kashmiri Storyteller
Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems The Adventures of Rusty: Collected Stories The Cherry Tree Getting Granny s Glasses
The Eyes of the Eagle
Thick as Thieves: Tales of Friendship Uncles, Aunts and Elephants: Tales from Your Favourite Storyteller
Alone in the World
I
I WAS STANDING on the threshold of a very exciting life, or at least that is how it seemed to me then. I had finally rid myself of my guardian Mr John Harrison, and here I was-employed as a tutor of English to a chap called Kishen. More important: here I was in the company of his breathtakingly beautiful mother-Meena Kapoor. I was to live with the Kapoors, and Meena Kapoor was just telling me about my room.
I gazed into her eyes all the time she talked.
It is a very nice room, she said, but of course there is no water or electricity or lavatory.
I was bathing in the brown pools of her eyes.
She said: You will have to collect your water at the big tank, and for the rest, you will have to do it in the jungle . . .
I thought I saw my own gaze reflected in her eyes.
Yes? I said.
You can give Kishen his lessons in the morning until twelve o clock. Then no more, then you have your food.
Then?
I watched the movement of her lips.
Then nothing, you do what you like, go out with Kishen or Somi or any of your friends.
Where do I teach Kishen?
On the roof, of course.
I retrieved my gaze, and scratched my head. The roof seemed a strange place for setting up school.
Why the roof?
Because your room is on the roof.
Meena led me round the house until we came to a flight of steps, unsheltered, that went up to the roof. We had to hop over a narrow drain before climbing the steps.
This drain, warned Meena, is very easy to cross. But when you are coming downstairs be sure not to take too big a step because then you might bump into the wall on the other side or fall over the stove which is usually there . . .
I ll be careful, I promised.
We began climbing, Meena in the lead. I watched Meena s long, slender feet. The slippers she wore consisted only of two straps that passed between her toes, and the backs of the slippers slapped against her heels like Somi s (Somi was a very close friend of mine), only the music created by her slippers-like the feet-was different . . .
Another thing about these steps, continued Meena, there are twenty-two of them. No, don t count, I have already done so . . . But remember, if you are coming home in the dark, be sure you take only twenty-two steps, because if you don t, then -and she snapped her fingers in the air- you will be finished! After twenty-two steps you turn right and you find the door, here it is. If you do not turn right and you take twenty-three steps, you will go over the edge of the roof!
Both of us laughed, and suddenly Meena took my hand and led me into the room.
It was a small room, but this did not matter much as there was very little in it: only a string cot, a table, a shelf and a few nails in the wall. In comparison to my room in my guardian s house, it wasn t even a room: it was four walls, a door and a window.
The door looked out on the roof, and Meena pointed through it, at the big round water tank.
That is where you bathe and get your water, she said.
I know, I went with Somi.
There was a big mango tree behind the tank, and Kishen was sitting in its branches, watching us. Surrounding the house were a number of litchee trees, and in the summer they and the mango would bear fruit.
Meena and I stood by the window in silence, hand in hand. I was prepared to stand there, holding hands for ever. Perhaps all that Meena felt for me was a sisterly affection; but I was stumbling into love-of that I was certain.
From the window we could see many things. In the distance, towering over the other trees, was the Flame of the Forest, its flowers glowing red-hot against the blue of the sky. Through the window came a shoot of pink bougainvillaea creeper; and I knew I would never cut it; and so I knew I would never be able to shut the window. The room, the window with this spray of bougainvillaea-all of it reminded me of a summer several years back and my summertime friend Koki.
Meena s voice broke into my thoughts. If you do not like it, we will find another . . .
I squeezed her hand, and smiled into her eyes, and said: But I like it. This is the room I want to live in. And do you know why, Meena? Because it isn t a real room, that s why!
I was a bit surprised at myself for addressing her by her first name. But she let it pass, so I made up my mind to call her thus from then on-at least whenever we were alone.
The afternoon was warm, and I sat beneath the big banyan tree that grew behind the house, a tree that was almost a house in itself; its spreading branches drooped to the ground and took new root, forming a maze of pillared passages. The tree sheltered scores of birds and squirrels.
A squirrel stood in front of me. It looked at me from between its legs, its tail in the air, back arched gracefully and nose quivering excitedly.
Hallo, I said.
The squirrel brushed its nose with its forepaw, winked at me, hopped over my leg, and ran up a pillar of the banyan tree.
I leant back against the broad trunk of the banyan, and listened to the lazy drone of the bees, the squeaking of the squirrels and the incessant bird talk.
I thought of Meena and of Kishen, and felt miserably happy; and then I remembered Somi and the chaat shop-this was our favourite haunt. I climbed down the tree in a hurry and literally ran all the way to the chaat shop. Somi was already there, waiting for me rather impatiently. As soon as he saw me he ordered for plates of alu chhole . The chaatwallah , that god of the tikkees , handed us each a leaf bowl, and prepared the dish: first sliced potatoes, then peas, then red and gold chilli powders, then a sprinkling of juices, then he shook it all up and down in the leaf bowl and, in a simplicity, the alu chhole was ready.
Somi removed his slippers, crossed his legs, and looked a question.
It s fine, said I.
You are sure?
There was concern in Somi s voice, and the smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. He looked doubtful as if he wasn t sure after all about this job that he had helped me get.
It s fine, I said. I ll soon get used to the room. There was a silence. I concentrated on my alu chhole , feeling guilty and ungrateful.
Ranbir has gone, said Somi. Ranbir and Somi were best friends; Ranbir was a good friend of mine too-he had introduced me to this new life I led now, by making me play Holi with him. Now he had gone to Mussoorie to attend school there.
Oh, he didn t even say goodbye!
He has not gone for ever. And anyway, what would be the use of saying goodbye . . .
He sounded depressed. He finished his alu chhole and said: Rusty, best favourite friend, if you don t want this job I ll find you another.
But I like it, Somi, I want it, really I do. You are trying to do too much for me. Mrs Kapoor is wonderful, and Mr Kapoor is good fun, and Kishen is not so bad, you know . . . Come on to the house and see the room. It s the kind of room in which you write poetry or create music.
We walked home in the evening. The evening was full of sounds. I noticed the sounds, because I was happy, and a happy person notices things.
Carriages passed us on the road, creaking and rattling, wheels squeaking, hoofs resounding on the ground; and the whip-cracks above the horse s ear, and the driver s shouts, and the wheels going round, squeaking and creaking, and the hoofs going clippetyclippety, clip-clop-clop . . .
A bicycle came swishing through the puddles, the wheels purring and humming smoothly, the bell tinkling . . . In the bushes there was the chatter of sparrows and seven-sisters, but I could not see them no matter how hard I looked.
And there were footsteps . . .
Our own footsteps, quiet and thoughtful; and ahead of us an old man, with a dhoti round his legs and a black umbrella in his hand, walking at a clockwork pace. At each alternate step he tapped with his umbrella on the pavement; he wore noisy shoes, and his footsteps echoed off the pavement to the beat of the umbrella. Somi and I quickened our own steps, passed him by, and let the endless tapping die on the wind.
We sat on the roof for an hour,